


Dear John Letters and the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

by Sforzie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Crazy stalker lady, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sforzie/pseuds/Sforzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear John, carved into a dead man’s chest.<br/>Sherlock is gone, now I love you best.</p>
<p>John is stalked after Sherlock's fall. Poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear John Letters and the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

_Dear John_ , carved into a dead man’s chest.  
 _Sherlock is gone, now I love you best._  
A postmortem bruise, and other sordid clues.  
These are all John has to go on.  
The next is a woman with a caved in head.  
 _Aren’t you lonely, with Sherlock dead?_  
A little girl, only four or five,  
Bleeding out on the street, barely alive  
Strained parting words whispered:  
“Tell John, she loves him best.”  
Then life drains out, she leaves like the rest.  
  
“Bloody Hell,” is all Lestrade says,  
When they find another one with words on his legs:  
The left says: _John Watson, bachelor confirmed_  
 _You’ll be mine soon_ , scratched into the right.  
The police issue surveillance for the night,   
Watching, worried for John Watson’s life.  
Next morning, there’s a man dead near the Thames,  
 _Just ask, John, and I’ll be your wife._  
They continue watching, and Mycroft does too.  
Perhaps John is frightened, his hands are steady  
As he sits up late, waiting, his gun at the ready.  
  
But then, on Valentine’s Day, outside the flat on Baker Street,  
The police find the last body, and know they’ve been beat.  
One upped by a ghost, it would appear.  
The police find a note hidden amongst the blood smears.  
 _Dear John, I am sorry, I won’t do it again  
What man breaks the heart of his one and only friend?_  
Lestrade hurries into the flat, afraid of what he’ll find,  
And discovers a puzzle of a different kind.  
John Watson, peacefully asleep on the couch,  
Arms curled tight around his best friend.  
It’s the happiest way for a massacre to end.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I wake up with lines of bad poetry in my head. This is the sort of thing that results. Otherwise, it's just my peculiar and not quite fluffy contribution to the V-Day Johnlock blitz.


End file.
